


Fox

by 13starbuck42



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Bed Sex, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Oral Sex, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-12 23:20:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13557717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13starbuck42/pseuds/13starbuck42
Summary: She had only called him by his first name once, until now.





	Fox

She had only called him by his first name once, until now.  He had laughed, that first time, told her even his parents didn’t call him that, and she had been embarrassed.

But he is certainly not laughing now, and she is certainly not embarrassed.

Another late night working case reports had turned into Shiner Bock and the Knicks game on TV.  He suggested Stratego, but she talked him down to Cribbage, bribing him with popcorn.  He dug for  cards while she melted the butter, and they’d met back in the middle on the worn leather couch, sitting cross-legged, face-to-face.  

She beat him badly, three times.  He threw his cards down between them, swiped the whole lot on the floor.  Smiled mischievously, he slowly leaned forward on his knees in front of her.  He towered over her, inches from her face, and playfully accused her of hogging the snacks.  She threw her head back and belly-laughed, leaning back to snatch the bowl out of his grasp.  He leaned with her, fists digging into the cushions, knuckles brushing her ribs.  Her laugh sobered to a giggle, and he brought his hand up to her face.  His fingers snaked their way into her hair, and her giggle softened to a whimper. 

He kissed her.

Slowly, but not tentatively.  She responded immediately, abandoned the coveted popcorn bowl to run her hands, palms flat and fingers splayed, up his torso, under his arms, over his shoulders.  Took hold, didn’t let go.  She reclined further, until her back was arched, her head hovering above the armrest, unwilling to release his mouth.  She unfurled her legs, one against the back of the couch.  Spread them just enough for him to fit, the full length of him pressed her into the cushions, and she felt his cock twitch against her heat.  He broke away, struggled to breathe, worried he was crushing her, but she raked her fingernails up under his shirt, arched her back, wound her legs around him.

He was hard, harder than he thought he’d be at this point, but years of pent-up everything would do that to anyone.  Her hands were tugging at his shirt now, demanding its removal.  He obliged, made it clear she would be required to do the same, and offered to help.  When she sat up to divest herself of the white cotton v-neck, she rolled her hips into him, made a noise he’d never heard before and all he wanted was for her to make it again.  He sank his teeth into the tender curve of her neck and she shuddered against him, brought her hands around to trace the lines of his ribs with her fingertips.

He laid her back down, admired her porcelain skin.  Stared at her, not moving, and she wondered if he was reconsidering; she worried her bottom lip.  He reassured her: angled his hips, cock tight against his jeans, and pressed into her.  Wished he could feel her, would give anything to have her hot and slick around him.  She nodded, understood.  Her mouth on his, tongues explored and hands roamed, needy and greedy.  He ground himself into her, raspy moans escaping between fevered kisses.  Her fingers dug into his waistband at the back .

He couldn’t do this forever, he’d never last.  

He deftly scooped her up with both arms, her legs still moored to his hips.  He moved them to the bedroom, set her down on the mattress on her knees and stood in front her.  He cupped her breasts, brushed his thumbs over her nipples, trapped beneath ivory satin, white lace.  She reached back to unclasp, gave him free reign, and he immediately took one pink mound into his mouth, rolled and pulled the other in his fingers.  

She stroked his hair, scratched across his shoulders with her nails, gasped when his mouth left one nipple and found the other.  She arched her back, forcing him to take her breasts by the handful, and he began kneading and sucking, licking the space between them.  

She reached for his jeans, made quick work of the button and zipper, pushed them down as far as she could.  She pulled away from him, crawling back on her knees until she was on all fours, facing him.  Looked up at him, into his eyes, then her gaze traveled down: his lips, his bare chest, his defined abdomen; down further to where his jeans were open.  She could see him straining against his boxers and the tip of his cock, sticky-wet above the line of elastic.  She used both hands to remove the offending articles of clothing, stared at him, admiring, as he had stared at her, and took him in her mouth.

She cupped his balls with one hand, ran her tongue up and down his length.  Little circles with her tongue at the base, again at the head.  He was salty, of course, but also earthy and rich.  She moved her hand from his balls to stroke him slowly, moving her tongue in patterns he would never forget but could never replicate.  She hummed softly and he held his breath, clutched a fistful of her hair, braced himself with a hand on her back, just above her ass.  That perfectly round, gorgeous ass.  He thought about baseball and barbecue and cars and it did absolutely no good.

She had him in her mouth, deeper than she should, and fought against her gag reflex.  Tears stung her eyes, and she pulled back, lips firm, and grazed the head of his cock with her teeth, just barely.  He wanted to be inside of her.  

He reached down, pulled her up by her elbows and pushed her back on the bed, slid her pants off, not bothering with buttons or zippers; there were too many to deal with.  Ivory panties to match the bra, but these were lace, see-through, and soaked.  He stripped them off, tossed them on the floor with everything else.  Caught sight of her lying there, naked, slowly moving her hips, aching for him.

He reached forward, cupped her ass with his hands, sinewy forearms under her thighs.  He kissed the creamy skin there, nuzzled the well-kept fringe of wiry curls with his nose.  Dipped his tongue between her lips to taste her, smiled when she mewled in appreciation.  He used his tongue to search for her clit, which didn’t take long.  He teased it, licking and flicking and sucking.  She bucked beneath him, wanting more, needing more, and he slid a finger inside her, felt her relax and tense at the same time, so he slid two fingers in, and out, and in.  Her thighs clenched, her hands grasped at his hair.  He curled his fingers, pressed up, worked her clit with his tongue at the same time.  She cried out, trembled, pulled his hair.  He needed to be inside of her.

He abandoned his post between her legs, hoisted himself up, palms at her shoulders and knees at her thighs.  She met his gaze, pushed the back of his thighs with her calves, begged him.  He pushed into her.  

Slowly, but not tentatively.  

She felt better than he’d ever dreamed, every inch of her, warm and wet, swollen, tight around him.  He drew back to look at her, to steel himself.  Her mouth was open, eyes wide.  She brought her arms up his back, over his shoulders, down his arms, and gripped his wrists.  He set the pace, sank the full length of his cock into her over and over.  She rolled her hips over and over.  They were close, both of them.  

He reached back, pulled her leg over his shoulder, held her knee; his other hand gripped her thigh.  He plunged into her, hip deep, and she hissed a breath through her teeth.  Pain and pleasure.  Harder and longer and faster.  She reached up, put two fingers in his mouth, he worked them around with his tongue.  She pulled them down to touch herself.  Her clit throbbed, hungry for relief.  Her eyes rolled back; she whimpered, panted, groaned.  Rolled her hips, smoothed her fingers over her clit to match his pace.  He thrust again and again and heard her cry out as she came.  “Oh fuck, I’m coming… fuucckk… ohmygodfuucckkk!”  She tightened around him, brought him to the edge.  And then she said it.

“Come for me, Fox.”

She held his gaze, and he thrust once, twice more, so deep, coming hard.  He said words, mumbled pleas to a higher power, called her name.  He collapsed, trapping her beneath him but unable to move, so they didn’t try.  They laid there, breathless, sticky and slick, spent and sated.  

She’d called him Fox.

She had only called him by his first name once, until now.  He had laughed, that first time, told her even his parents didn’t call him that, and she had been embarrassed.  

But he is certainly not laughing now, and she is certainly not embarrassed.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: I have this headcannon where Scully likes to call Mulder “Fox” in bed so something about how he grows to love his name or maybe the first time she lets it slip.


End file.
